 | The lost earl with other poems and tales in verse |  |
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SENATOR GRANDILOW.
If, I were Senator Grandilow,
Mounting the marble portico,
Going to speak where Sumner spoke,
To waken the echoes Webster woke,
While the anxious nation waits to hear
Peals of warning or notes of cheer,
Wouldn't my pulse tingle and my heart glow,—
If I were Senator Grandilow?
Mounting the marble portico,
Going to speak where Sumner spoke,
To waken the echoes Webster woke,
While the anxious nation waits to hear
Peals of warning or notes of cheer,
Wouldn't my pulse tingle and my heart glow,—
If I were Senator Grandilow?
I say to myself, when Grandilow
Looks smilingly down on friend and foe,
Thumb in waistcoat, quite at home
Under the flag-topped senate dome.
Fearless of front and valiant of lung,
With a nimble wit and a silvery tongue,—
“Ah, would some power on me bestow
The glorious gifts of a Grandilow!”
Looks smilingly down on friend and foe,
Thumb in waistcoat, quite at home
Under the flag-topped senate dome.
Fearless of front and valiant of lung,
With a nimble wit and a silvery tongue,—
“Ah, would some power on me bestow
The glorious gifts of a Grandilow!”
I gaze in wonder at Grandilow!
His eloquence bursts, a bright jet d'eau.
Diamond-crested, rainbow-spanned,
A pillar of light over all the land.
A beacon of hope to a people long
Groping in shadows of doubt and wrong;
At least I fancy it might be so,
If I were Senator Grandilow.
His eloquence bursts, a bright jet d'eau.
Diamond-crested, rainbow-spanned,
A pillar of light over all the land.
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Groping in shadows of doubt and wrong;
At least I fancy it might be so,
If I were Senator Grandilow.
For, if I were Senator Grandilow,
A chosen chief, would I forego
The privilege of the hour and place,
To lead, enlighten, and lift my race?
To rise sublime above private ends,
The clamors of faction, the claims of friends,
And strike for the right one downright blow,—
If I were a leader like Grandilow?
A chosen chief, would I forego
The privilege of the hour and place,
To lead, enlighten, and lift my race?
To rise sublime above private ends,
The clamors of faction, the claims of friends,
And strike for the right one downright blow,—
If I were a leader like Grandilow?
Would I (suppose I were Grandilow,
Sachem of the mighty bow!)
Envenom my shafts with spleen and pique,
Make base alliance with ring and clique,
And mix with solemn affairs of state
Powwow of passion and party hate?
Well, yes, I might, but would I, though,
If I were Senator Grandilow?
Sachem of the mighty bow!)
Envenom my shafts with spleen and pique,
Make base alliance with ring and clique,
And mix with solemn affairs of state
Powwow of passion and party hate?
Well, yes, I might, but would I, though,
If I were Senator Grandilow?
I am not skilled, like Grandilow,
To graft my fortunes and make them grow
On flourishing boughs of the nation's tree;
I haven't the arts of such as he,
Prosperous patriots who have made
Their country's service a thriving trade;
Her needs their steps to rise by;—no,
I haven't the knack of a Grandilow.
To graft my fortunes and make them grow
On flourishing boughs of the nation's tree;
I haven't the arts of such as he,
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Their country's service a thriving trade;
Her needs their steps to rise by;—no,
I haven't the knack of a Grandilow.
Is it fitting (pardon me, Grandilow,
If the question seems malapropos)
That a favored son should bring to her
A thrice-divided love; prefer
To the public good his party's call,
Clan before party, and self before all?
Are there no debts, but the debts you owe
A certain Senator Grandilow?
If the question seems malapropos)
That a favored son should bring to her
A thrice-divided love; prefer
To the public good his party's call,
Clan before party, and self before all?
Are there no debts, but the debts you owe
A certain Senator Grandilow?
For, let me say to you, Grandilow,—
Mounting the marble portico,
With your fist gripped full of the bolts of fate,
For a stand-up fight in the strifes of state,—
The horizon is larger than your hat,
The world is wider than your cravat,
A fact you possibly may not know;—
Think of it, will you, Grandilow?
Mounting the marble portico,
With your fist gripped full of the bolts of fate,
For a stand-up fight in the strifes of state,—
The horizon is larger than your hat,
The world is wider than your cravat,
A fact you possibly may not know;—
Think of it, will you, Grandilow?
No patent-reaper, O Grandilow,
Will reap a harvest we do not sow!
Error is violent, truth is strong;
The present is brief, the future long;
And History writes with an iron pen;
Time wags his sifter of deeds and men,
And into it straightway we must go;
Where then will be Senator Grandilow?
Will reap a harvest we do not sow!
Error is violent, truth is strong;
The present is brief, the future long;
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Time wags his sifter of deeds and men,
And into it straightway we must go;
Where then will be Senator Grandilow?
Then take my advice, dear Grandilow!
Don't soar so high nor stoop so low;
Quit your trained horses of craft and pride:
The world admires the way you ride,
But the world has other things to do
Than to watch the hoop while you jump through.
The Senate isn't a circus show,
Senator! Senator Grandilow!
Don't soar so high nor stoop so low;
Quit your trained horses of craft and pride:
The world admires the way you ride,
But the world has other things to do
Than to watch the hoop while you jump through.
The Senate isn't a circus show,
Senator! Senator Grandilow!
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“WHEN WE CAME FROM THE WAR.”
SONG OF THE POORHOUSE VETERANS.
Our people, when first we came home from the war,
Before they forgot what the fighting was for,
Came out with gay bands, and a wonderful noise
Of cannon and shouting, to welcome us boys.
Our riddled old regiment marched in its rags
Under arches of triumph and billowy flags,
That made the poor shred of our ensign ashamed;
And orators under an awning declaimed;
And loud were the plaudits; and handkerchiefs waved
When they talked of the Union our armies had saved,
And vowed that our victories made up a debt
Which a bountiful nation would never forget,
When first we came home from the war.
Before they forgot what the fighting was for,
Came out with gay bands, and a wonderful noise
Of cannon and shouting, to welcome us boys.
Our riddled old regiment marched in its rags
Under arches of triumph and billowy flags,
That made the poor shred of our ensign ashamed;
And orators under an awning declaimed;
And loud were the plaudits; and handkerchiefs waved
When they talked of the Union our armies had saved,
And vowed that our victories made up a debt
Which a bountiful nation would never forget,
When first we came home from the war.
But the fervor of greeting died out with the sound
Of the guns and the trumpets, and some of us found
That with toil and exposure and wounds badly healed
We had left the best part of ourselves on the field;
While at home younger men had stepped into our place,
And put us old limpers quite out of the race.
Our welcome wore off, and the often-told tale
Of our services soon became hackneyed and stale.
Kind souls, when we offered small wares at their doors,
Would buy them in pity, but voted us bores,
And could hardly believe that the blue-coated tramps
Were ever acquainted with battles and camps,
Or ever came home from the war.
Of the guns and the trumpets, and some of us found
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We had left the best part of ourselves on the field;
While at home younger men had stepped into our place,
And put us old limpers quite out of the race.
Our welcome wore off, and the often-told tale
Of our services soon became hackneyed and stale.
Kind souls, when we offered small wares at their doors,
Would buy them in pity, but voted us bores,
And could hardly believe that the blue-coated tramps
Were ever acquainted with battles and camps,
Or ever came home from the war.
At length they decided to settle us down
In the almshouse, with other poor wrecks of the town.
No parade of gay bands and great crowds thronging near
With flags and orations to welcome us here!
But the rosy-faced keeper received us, and said
That we ought to be thankful for shelter and bread.
Now, troubled no more with our needles and soap,
And the sight of gaunt men without health, without hope,
Who sadly remind them of services past,
Our kind-hearted people have leisure at last
To forget all about what the fighting was for,
And the promises made when we came from the war,
When first we came home from the war.
In the almshouse, with other poor wrecks of the town.
No parade of gay bands and great crowds thronging near
With flags and orations to welcome us here!
But the rosy-faced keeper received us, and said
That we ought to be thankful for shelter and bread.
Now, troubled no more with our needles and soap,
And the sight of gaunt men without health, without hope,
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Our kind-hearted people have leisure at last
To forget all about what the fighting was for,
And the promises made when we came from the war,
When first we came home from the war.
130
QUATRAINS AND EPIGRAMS.
A POET-CRITIC.
He writes anonymous reviews;The reason is well known:
To see in print some sure abuse
Of every rival poet's muse,
And praises of his own.
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THE REASON WHY.
Your thronged bright parlors are a paradiseI too would enter; but before my eyes
The doubting angel waves his two-edged sword—
The dread of boring and of being bored.
AN INDISCREET FRIEND.
Lucius defends me from my foes,But wins no thanks from me:
Better a whole brigade of those
Than one such friend as he!
132
ALCOTT.
(Inviting a Friend to one of the early “Conversations.”)
Do you care to meet Alcott? His mind is a mirror,Reflecting the unspoken thought of his hearer:
To the great he is great, to the fool he's a fool:
In the world's dreary desert a crystalline pool.
Where a lion looks in and a lion appears:
But an ass will see only his own ass's ears.
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